


Accounts

by LastNightFanfictionSavedMyLife



Series: A New Start [3]
Category: Belgravia (TV)
Genre: 1840s London, Belonging, Class Differences, Friendship, Gen, Redemption, Servants, Serving Classes, Victorian Philanthropy, below stairs, victorian london
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:08:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27560524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LastNightFanfictionSavedMyLife/pseuds/LastNightFanfictionSavedMyLife
Summary: Mr Turton's previous actions are held to account and he is judged... Will he be given another chance? A chance to redeem his prior poor choices...-A plan to boost his meagre pension fund and to give him a comfortable life after retirement has all gone terribly wrong for charismatic butler Turton! He's been given the old 'heave ho', kicked out on his ear with only the most basic of references. What is he going to do next?The lone wolf that is Amos Turton has to start all over again. Learning how to fit into this new, weird household is tricky when you're used to following your own rules. Within the confines of the rigid Victorian class system of course. Well, mostly... He's keeping quiet, biding his time and thinking of the money and his pension pot!Victorian London is really not a kind place for the serving classes and definitely not a good place to be destitute and poor. Which he is in danger of becoming...-Set in the Belgravia - TV Series and Book verse. All this takes place after episode 6 - the finale of the TV series - and after the book has finished.It is the early 1840s.-Alright Bambinos, please read and enjoy!
Series: A New Start [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2014321
Kudos: 3





	Accounts

He doesn't outright refuse. He resists. He procrastinates. He makes excuse after flimsy excuse to avoid the given task.

He can't. His guilt weighs on him. He should have told her. Been honest from the start. But he thinks that if he did, then he wouldn't be here. Employed.

He knew what he had to do but was excessively reluctant to act. His nerves were holding him back from just damn-well getting on with it. He didn’t want to tell her. To confess.

-

He takes to checking the newspaper advertisements looking for staff. He checks every evening now: when he's sitting in the servant’s dining room, after dinner has been cleared away. A backup plan. Mrs Brown notices. Of course she does. _That one notices everything, even if she's not in the same blasted room!_

"Planning on leaving us so soon, Mr Turton?" she asks him. She stared at him, her face full of disapproval.

He placed the newspaper down. "Not if I can help it, Mrs Brown," he answers truthfully. "But the decision may be out of my hands," he sighed despondently.

Mrs Brown looks at him thoughtfully. She sets the mending she's been doing down on the table.

"If you're worried about the missus finding out about your dealings with the Trenchard’s, then she already knows."

Mr Turton looks up sharply at that revelation, mouth hanging open.

"She knew from when you'd applied. I made it my business to find out about you. To see if you were suitable or not," she glanced at him, checking for any reaction.

"And your conclusion?" he asked quietly, confused as to why he's still here after all this time if the Mistress knew about him already.

"Apart from that one big mistake, your record was _mostly_ impeccable," she stated. "Others were the true guilty party there."

He shrugged. He was still guilty in the eyes of the law. No matter how much others may have urged him along the path, he had trodden it willingly.

"You've really nothing to worry about, Mr Turton," she reassured him and took up her sewing again. "So you can stop looking at the newspapers for another position. It won't be necessary."

He stared sharply at Mrs Brown. Decision made, he folded the newspaper and placed it down on the table. He checked his watch. Eight o'clock. Not too late then.

He made his excuses and left the dining room, going upstairs. He walked briskly towards the study before his resolve vanished. The door was open, and he could see light coming from inside. He stood in the doorway and saw that the Mistress was sitting on the sofa reading, just as she usually did at this time of night. He knocked on the door, announcing his presence.

She looked up and smiled brightly at him.

"Mr Turton. Is there something amiss?" she asked.

"No, Ma'am. Well maybe. Yes," he looked down, unsure, uncertain of what the outcome of this conversation would be. His anxiety and the wish to be honest were tearing him apart, pulling him in completely different directions.

"Well, which is it to be?" she asked, closing her book and placing it down on the sofa next to her.

"The account books. There's a reason I've been putting off doing them," he said quietly.

He heard her take a deep breath. "Would you please come over here, Mr Turton? I can't abide shouting across the room."

Her smile pulled him forward, even though he was sorely reluctant to do so. He had to do this. He desperately feared the outcome, but he’d decided that it was necessary. He needed to purge his guilt. Get rid of it like a dog vomiting up a mouldy old bone that had stuck in its throat. He walked over and stood stiffly in front of her. She looked up, having to tilt her head back to see him.

"Please sit down," she indicated towards the sofa. "You're unfeasibly tall, Mr Turton. My neck is hurting from looking up at you standing there in front of me, like some disapproving headmaster," she told him.

He sat gingerly and as far away as possible; her book was between them on the sofa, a silent chaperone. He's uneasy. It's entirely inappropriate that he should be so familiar with his mistress.

"You have a confession to make, Mr Turton?" she asked.

"I do," he answered. He couldn’t look at her. Instead he stared down at his clenched fists. "I stole my Master's secrets and sold them. Treason…" _There. Done it!_ "…but then I've just been told that you knew about this already?" he added uncertainly, his head hanging down wretchedly.

She nodded. "Yes, Mr Turton. I did." He could see that his knuckles were turning white.

"Mrs Brown found out where Mrs Ellis was staying. She also found Speer. She's not with the Trenchards anymore either. There may have been some _evidence_ that found its way into the Trenchards hands about her past..."

Mr Turton looked up sharply at that. She was smiling widely at him. It made him uneasy and unable to hold her gaze.

"As you know, we've been through several butlers over the past year," she paused and he nodded nervously, "so if anyone applied for the position, I needed to know if they were appropriate or not. I couldn't afford another mistake. I needed someone who I thought I could trust," she explained.

"And I trust Mrs Brown's judgement about you to be correct."

"Her judgement?" he asked, his question laden with apprehension.

"That you were led. Tempted by Mr John Bellasis, persuaded by Miss Speer, and that Miss Ellis tried to have you take the entire blame. That you would never have been caught up doing what you did without Miss Speer's involvement. They all admitted everything to Mrs Brown's er… associates," she paused.

 _What did she mean?_ _Am I to be sacked again?_ He didn't understand. _And what did she mean by “associates”?_ He clenched his fists again tightly. His nerves were at breaking point.

"My father was a campaigner for the amendments to the Bloody Code," she continued. "He believed in leniency and reformation instead of blithely sending a poor fellow off to the gallows for daring to steal so he could feed his family," she said angrily.

"Also, he was forever reminding me never to judge a person by their past mistakes."

His fearful eyes were drawn to hers, but he could see no malice or accusation there.

"But, instead,” she continued, “he told me to see how they react to them. Their misdeeds. Do they carry on spiralling downwards into a life of crime or debauchery? Or do they learn from them, and prefer to make themselves a better person?"

She looked pointedly at him. He turned his gaze away from her unwavering stare. His nails were digging into the palms of his hands. His nerves at not knowing what judgement she would pronounce were getting the better of him.

"All of the staff here have a 'background', a 'history', if you like."

He noticed that she didn't call them 'servants'. He peered curiously at her, wondering as to what she meant by 'background'. She was still looking at him cheerfully. Her smiling face un-nerved him even more than her more serious one. But he could feel hope blossoming, like a small snowdrop pushing through the frost and snow.

"Their pasts are not up to me to divulge. You'll have to speak to them yourselves about that," she answered his silent query.

"I've always followed my father's advice in everything. It's been most valuable to my survival in this den of iniquity that is London," she laughed. A tinkling sound that made him warm inside.

"You've proven invaluable over the past month that you've been here," she admitted happily. "I couldn't imagine how we'd all cope now, without you."

He wasn't really a smiling sort of person, so he didn't, but he couldn't help a tiny upwards twitch of the corner of his mouth. He preened proudly at her praise.

"Yes. You've proven invaluable. Except for one thing."

Her face changed. Turning to a frown. His small fleeting 'not-smile' vanished entirely. He sucked in a breath, watching her. Waiting. _Ah, here it is, I'll be sacked again then._ His anxiety resurfaced.

Her stern expression was completely spoiled by a mischievous grin. _What the hell is going on here?_ Curiosity and hope nudged his fraught nerves aside. Pushing them away like a pair of overweight men barging their way through a crowd to get to a table laden with the most delicious food.

"That one thing being where the account books are concerned. You really do need to take over their running. The numbers baffle me entirely!" she scrunched her nose up and shook her head.

His held breath rushed out of him. He chuckled nervously to hide his utter relief.

"Yes, Ma'am. I'll start on them now," he stood up sharply, intending to take a step towards the desk and the account book.

She stood up as well, placing a hand on his arm to stop him. Which it did. Instantly. He looked down at her small hand placed delicately on his forearm. Then he remembered where he was, and looked down at her face swiftly, a query in his eyes.

"They can wait until the morning, Mr Turton." She withdrew her hand. He could still feel it though. It had scorched a burning brand where it had lain gently upon him. He was not used to such invasions of his personal space.

"Yes, Ma'am," he bowed and waited for her nod of dismissal before leaving.

He paused in the doorway and turned back towards her.

"There is one thing, Ma'am, if I could," he asked.

"Yes, Mr Turton?"

"Just a humble thank you. For allowing me a second chance, Ma'am. It is most gratefully appreciated," he sincerely hoped she'd believe how much it meant to him.

"My pleasure, Mr Turton," she beamed up at him.

"And if your father were still alive, I'd thank him too. For his leniency. And for his education, of yourself," he paused. "His thinking is to be admired."

"Thank you, Mr Turton, many would disagree with you on his opinions. And mine. Your thanks are most kindly accepted. By both of us," she offered him a watery smile.

He nodded and left.

-

A huge weight was lifted from his shoulders. He even, god help him, _smiled_ as he walked back down to the servants’ quarters. He had the strangest urge to _whistle_. But he quickly tamped that utterly ridiculous feeling far down.


End file.
